


Blue Cars, Tequila and Freefalling

by Fox_Katelia



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst with a semi happy ending, Drinking & Talking, F/F, F/M, Freefalling, I live for the Cassian/Feyre BroTP, Late birthday present for chocolatemma333, Road Trips, cars with memories, its undecided, that 'Time of the month', the ACOTAR Hogwarts AU that literally no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Katelia/pseuds/Fox_Katelia
Summary: Late birthday present for chocolatemma333! (sorry this wasn't up earlier)It does not take five people to drive a car across the country. And yet somehow Feyre's ended up sitting uncomfortably close to her super-hot boss with four boys in a car held together by Scotch-tape and prayer heading down the A702.OR:The ACOTAR road trip/Hogwarts AU literally no one asked for and I stubbornly decided to write.





	Blue Cars, Tequila and Freefalling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangirl933laluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl933laluna/gifts).



> Happy Late Birthday, chocolatemma333! So sorry this wasn't up on your ACTUAL birthday.  
> Your wonderfully strange ideas have finally taken root in my brain. Sorry for all the cursing. Or not, because it’s your bad influence that’s gotten me to this point. Let’s eat some pasta.  
> Love you forever and ever, Emmie. Here’s to many, many more crazy and hilarious years together.  
> xx  
> A

Nine hours.

It takes nine hours according to GPS to drive from Scotland to Cornwall. Nine hours and forty seven minutes if you stop for gas, snacks and bathroom breaks.

But somehow, Feyre thinks it will take much longer.

“Oh, I can’t, actually,” she had said. “I’ve got to drive to Cornwall this weekend.”

It was a statement. It was not an invitation.

And yet somehow she’s ended up with four boys heading down the A702.

Feyre’s supposed to be alone in her little beat up blue Volkswagen, singing along terribly to Meghan Trainor and generally being miserable.

She’s not supposed to be inching along the highway, the repeated opening and closing of the windows turning her hair into a bird’s nest, four of the most annoying boys in the world roughhousing in the backseat.

Toddlers. They are like toddlers.

She grips the steering wheel tightly, resisting the urge to scream, sob or maybe just hex them all into submission.

Perhaps all three.

The music keeps switching from an upbeat pop song to slow jazz music as Rhys fiddles with the radio in a fascinated way that makes her feel like he’s never seen one before.

Of course, he probably hasn’t. Even the most benign of pureblood families don’t have much to do with Muggle technology.

It doesn’t stop it from being fucking annoying.

“Are we there yet?” Cassian complains. He’s in the back, much to his earlier detriment, and is watching the window go up and down with wide eyes. The sudden hot blasts of summer air from the highway and then the still coldness makes her hair turn into a tangled mess.

Feyre forces as much calm into her voice as she can. “We just barely left Scotland, Cassian.”

She doesn’t even know why they’re here. Well, not Cassian. She hadn’t expressly invited him, but as her closest male friend he took as his duty to make sure she didn’t drive herself off a cliff.

So she’d caved when Cass pleaded with her—“It’s been my lifelong _dream_ to ride in a car”—and then showed up the next day with all four boys in tow, and Rhys and Amren had agreed that it would be safer if someone was with her, even though she wasn’t technically on Order business…

A headache starts to pound at her temple.

Why is Lucien even here? Azriel she understands—he, Cassian and Rhys are inseparable. But Lucien, as the ex-best friend of her ex-boyfriend, is just a mystery. And he looks so damn uncomfortable, jammed into the back between Azriel and Cassian. She would feel sorry for him if she wasn’t envisioning possibly instigating a car crash just to get out of this situation.

And _Rhysand._

He’s the head of the fucking Order. He probably has much more important things to do that look after his younger, adopted half-brother and one of the freshest graduates in the entire crew.

And why does he have to sit in the front seat, with the window down like that? Because his shirt is white and thin, and the wind is making her hands and nose numb and possibly her brain too, because she can’t stop thinking about the taught lines of his chest, and how it would feel if she ran her fingers down those sculpted muscles…

She swerves to avoid a car, and takes a deep breath. No, _no._ Bad thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. He was five years her senior, one of the most eligible pureblood bachelors in the entire Wizarding World and who _cares_ if he was the one who taught her how to cast a proper shield charm, which she’s always been rubbish at—

Who’s she kidding? _She_ cares.

Feyre tries to wrench her thoughts in a more wholesome direction—one that isn’t preoccupied by the gorgeous, violet eyed _doofus_ next to her fiddling with the window opener like it’s a sign from God.

Bad things, bad things. This trip is supposed to be solemn, because she’s alone (metaphorically. Physically she is unhappily surrounded) and she’s delivering this car because of what happened—

For the second time in as many minutes she nearly crashes, and she has to take a deep breath as she avoids swiping a Rolls Royce.

_Okay, abs before tragedies,_ she tells herself. _Abs before tragedies. Just hold it together, hold it together for another eight hours and seven minutes. Abs before tragedies. Abs before tragedies. Abs before tragedies..._

She doesn’t realize she’s mouthing the words until Rhysand says, “Pardon?” next to her and red is flooding her face.

“Uh, nothing,” she mumbles.

He eyes her, but doesn’t say anything else. She wants to scream. Isn’t it unfair for someone to be so inhumanly attractive?

She grips the steering wheel of the car that is basically being held together by Scotch-tape and prayer with white-knuckled hands, reminding herself to breathe.

Any sane driving instructor would have told her to impound the car, to drive it straight to the nearest Dump. Hell, they wouldn’t have even let her get out of the parking lot. But Elain doesn’t have a license, Nesta doesn’t want anything to do with the whole situation, and she has no use for an automobile when she can just Apparate everywhere. But her mum’s goddaughter Vassa had said she’d take it, but she was swamped with work and if she could just drive it down to Cornwall for her…?

Fine. It’s all fine.

Or it would’ve been, if Feyre wasn’t a not-so-mature nineteen year old Muggleborn witch straight out of Hogwarts with four of the most irresponsible boys in all of Britain sitting the back like toddlers in need of a wet nurse.

Cassian grows bored with the window and slumps back in his seat. “Agh, does anyone have a good drinking game?” he complains, dark hair flapping in the wind, his Scottish drawl distorted by over-dramatized yawns. Not like Rhys, who’s all posh-British accents and newly tailored suits.

Feyre inches cautiously behind a little yellow bug driven by a pair of rambunctious teenagers. Just like them, she supposes. Or sort of.

Shit, she wishes Mor had come with.

But she’s on a romantic holiday in Spain with her new girlfriend, and while Feyre’s happy for her and Andromache, couldn’t she have chosen a more convenient time for their Hallmark-adorable love story to finally flourish?  
Coming back to the question, this time she doesn’t bother to force the hostility out of her voice when she says, “No. We are not drinking on this trip at all.”

In fact, it’s her only rule. She could manage—barely—dragging the boys all around the UK, but she is _not_ spending her one weekend off toting a bunch of drunk idiots. Even if it’s not exactly a vacation at the moment. For some strange reason, none of the boys had protested when she brought it up earlier.

She adds, “Besides, it was your idea to come. If you didn’t want to, you should have just stayed at home.” There’s a palpable strain in her voice.

She doesn’t really mean it. Cassian would never let her face this alone.

There’s an uncomfortable cough from the very back of the car. Lucien looks the most uncomfortable she’s seen him since he walked out of her sister’s bedroom butt naked and sporting the very obvious signs of debauchery all over him. She doesn’t know why he’d even want to come, especially since he and Elain broke up.

Feyre sees Cassian lean forward out of the corner of her eye and hisses.

“Put your seatbelt on or I will pull this car over,” she snaps.

“Spoilsport.” But he sits back and rebuckles up all the same.

“Can I drive yet?” Rhys says from next to her, sounding hopeful.

“Absolutely not.” She shifts gears to overtake another car. “I’m not handing over a pile of scrap metal.”

Rhys lifts his chin. “I bet I’m an ace driver.”

“Seatbelt  _on_ ,” she says.

“Are we there yet?” Lucien asks.

Azriel sighs. “We haven’t even left Scotland.”

Eight hours to go.

* * *

They haven’t stopped talking. Not once.

Feyre switches gears as they inch along behind the highway traffic, listening to Cass and Azriel loudly proclaiming themselves Lords and Masters of the Toilet Seats.

Whatever the hell that means.

Lucien breaks in with an interjection, and that sparks a whole second round of arguing, though she notices a definitely more rough edge to the conversation now.

Beside her, Rhys offers her an apologetic grin. “Sorry about that lot.” He jerks his chin at his friends. “I should’ve just come alone.”

Her heart jerks into a gallop in her chest at that and her palms become quite sweaty on the steering wheel, but she somehow manages to say, “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll find some use for the company eventually,” without stumbling over her words or perhaps just giving in and jumping him.

She gives him a strained grin.

Rhys shakes his head, dark hair falling over his eyes. He absentmindedly pushes it back, the tattoos on his arms rippling with the movement beneath his shirt. “Always so unflappable, flying through life,” he says, grinning. “That’s why I adore you, Feyre darling.”

She doesn’t let him see how her heart races as the words, even as something deep within her plummets.

Because she isn’t unflappable, and lately she hasn’t been flying so much as falling.

* * *

Forty minutes and a few minor squabbles later, once they’ve all settled in, Lucien squished in the middle in the back, and they all understand the buttons within their immediate vicinity, the ride actually becomes halfway enjoyable.

For about twenty minutes, anyway, until someone needs to use the bathroom and they pull over at a petrol station.

“You can use the bathrooms and stretch your legs a bit,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt in front of the gas pump. A mundane stretch of highway and endless fields is all that can be seen. The summer heat makes it close to unbearable, even with the AC going full blast. “I’m going into the store. But do _not,_ under any circumstances, stray away from the car or bother anyone. And do not get into any fights. Is that understood?” She gives them her best imitation of Mor’s fierce glare, and it seems to work, because they all nod.

She releases a breath. “Great. We’ll meet back here in five minutes.”

The boys all stumble out of the car, and Lucien looks a bit green now, and she remembers for the first time that he’s not particularly fond of car travel.

Perhaps she’ll get him some Ibuprofen. Maybe.

She’s getting out of the car, taking her purse with her, when her stomach suddenly spasms, the ache that she’s been feeling in her belly all morning intensifying.

Feyre let out a little groan. _Oh no._

She waddles toward the nearest bathroom as quickly as she can (pointedly choosing the one on the opposite side of the building the boys have gone to) and when she’s locked herself in it’s all she can do to keep from sobbing in frustration.

Because of fucking _course_ she’d her period now.

Wadding up toilet paper to use as a temporary pad, she checks her purse, grabbing for her wallet to buy supplies to at least tide her over until the end of this trip...

Except she only has Galleons, and no Muggle petrol station in its right mind is going to accept semi-suspect looking gold coins from a rumpled looking teenager with a whole cabal of tattooed boys.

Feyre leans over the sink, taking a few deep breaths. She looks at her reflection, taking in the tired, faded eyes and wan skin. Her golden brown hair looks limp and in need of a wash.

She can do this.

She has to.

After splashing some water on her face and tying back her hair, she makes her way over to the boys, who are standing over by the restrooms, arguing with some old lady.

“—but tattoos are expressions of the soul,” Rhys is saying, gesturing wildly as she comes within earshot.

The little old lady with her flower-print handbag just glares. “Young man, those _prints_ on your arms are a vile, toxic way of trying to express adolescent rebellion. Why, in _my_ day—”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Feyre says, rather than see her friends get trounced by a five foot two grandmother with a cane, “I apologize for any disturbance my friends have caused you.” She smiles blandly. “I’m taking them to an, ahem, _special_ facility in Cornwall.” She leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the newest technology, dedicated to _disturbed_ youths.”

Rhys makes a squawking noise of protest from behind her, but she kicks him sharply in the shin, and take a bit too much pleasure in the choked sound of pain he emits a second later.

The woman looks suspicious, but Feyre give her her best smile, and after a second she nods. “Well, I suppose in that case I’ll leave you to it,” she huffs, drawing herself up.

Feyre gives her a little grin. “Thank you ma’am, and I apologize sincerely for any disturbance.” Her teeth ache a bit from keeping up the grin, and her ovaries feel like they’re doing a tap-dance routine on her liver. With spiked shoes.

The old lady sniffs. “Yes, yes. Oh, and tell _that one,”_ she points at Lucien, “that he’ll never get a good woman without correcting himself a bit. Honestly, the fashions of today’s young people—red wigs are only good on _Halloween,_ and even then in moderation.” She hobbles off.

Lucien gapes. _“Did she just call my hair a_ wig—?!” He looks liable to stomp off after her and tackle her to the ground, but they’ve already broken one of her rules, and she’s tired and hot and feels like death and the last of her patience is utterly gone, so Feyre whirls on them and snaps, “All right, _enough._ You are _all_ coming with me inside the store, Cassian, you are loaning me money because I only have Galleons, we are getting what we need, then we are getting on the road and finishing this disaster of a road-trip before it gets any worse.”

Rhys looks like he wants to protest, but she doesn’t give him the time as she turns sharply on her heel and marches into the store, the boys scurrying along after her.

And Feyre doesn’t give herself time to be embarrassed when she goes to up to feminine products isle and grabs the first thing she sees, even when Lucien makes a sort of choking sound behind her, Azriel looks confused, and Rhys and Cassian just can’t seem to stop laughing.

She wants to hex them— _would_ hex them, but ‘no magic’ was almost as high on her rule of no-no’s as ‘no drinking’. She won’t be the first person to break her own rule. She won’t.

But Cassian does hand over the money, and even slips a bottle of Advil in the mix, even though he’s smirking while he does it, and she would be a bit more angry and mortified if she didn’t feel so ill.

“Hey, you don’t look so great,” Rhys says as they make their way back to the car. He’s stopped smiling, but Feyre catches the concerned looks he sends her when she stumbles yet again, the nausea making her woozy.

“I’m fine,” she grits her teeth. “Just fine.”

It isn’t totally a lie—but it becomes one when barely five minutes later the dizziness hits her so hard she nearly crashes the car into a lamppost.

They’ve barely even left the parking lot.

Cassian unbuckles himself. “Alright, that’s it. No more driving for you. You look like hell, Fey—you should lie down in the back seat. We’re going to Cornwall, right? I’ll drive us.”

She protests weakly, but all the years of road safety from her driving instructors must have stuck, because she knows she’s not in any condition to drive a car across the country. But that doesn’t mean she wants _Cassian_ driving.

She tells him this.

“Well, then I’ll drive,” Rhys proposes, and she thinks he would’ve been the Good Samaritan if she doesn’t see the eager gleam in his eyes.

“Absolutely not,” she declares.

This brings off a whole other round of squabbling, until it finally ends with Feyre stretched out in the back seat beside Rhys and Cassian, Lucien uncomfortably wriggling in the driver’s seat, and Az next to him in charge of the map.

She’s explained the basics of driving to the red-haired male, but it doesn’t stop her from going through a wave of vertigo that has nothing to do with her cycle and everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t have a license as they inch out of the petrol station.

Lucien chuckles nervously and cautiously shifts gears. The car jerks forward. He swallows and glances back to where she’s leaning against the window. “This’ll be just perfect, won’t it?” he says.

Right. _Perfect._

* * *

“No! No, it was the last exit. Oh, for fuck’s sake Lucien can’t you _read?_ Oh my god, we’re going to die in this car.”

Feyre tries to keep her eyes closed, but, like a train wreck, the scene demands to be looked at, and a second later she cautiously peeps out from behind her hair.

It’s late in the afternoon, which means rush hour traffic. Which wouldn’t be so bad if Lucien isn’t going sixty miles an hour, weaving in and out of cars like it’s his Gods-sworn duty.

Feyre thinks that maybe he’s just enjoying the thrill, but then she catches sight of his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel and decides he’s just terrified.

Cassian’s continued hollering from beside her doesn’t help much, especially since she’s now stretched out over the two boys’ laps, her head resting in Rhys’s unfairly soft pants. Cashmere, of course. It would be relaxing if she wasn’t aware just how close she was to…other things as well.

Lucien narrowly avoids smashing into a VW Bug, and executes a highly illegal and dangerous U-turn in order to reach the correct exit.

My vision tilts and I groan, burying my face in Rhys’s stomach. “Kill me,” I beg him. “I can’t watch this.”

He chuckles, his hands running soothingly through my hair and creating butterflies in my stomach, but I hear a bit of strain in the sound.

“Ah, don’t worry. Lucien has too much self-preservation to kill us all.” He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself.

The car scrapes the concrete wall at the edge of the highway, before jerking down into the exit.

Lucien is clenching his jaw, and even Azriel looks a bit green as he says, “Maybe try taking the turns a little slower next time?”

Cassian settles down, grumbling, “Yeah, you nearly murdered us all Vanserra, and there’s no way I’m having Feyre die a virgin.”

She jerks up, squawking her outrage. _“Cassian!_ That is—you—”

Feyre splutters, and feels the rumbling vibrations behind her head and neck as Rhys shakes with silent laughter beneath her.

It’s not true, of course. Tamlin was never one to wait in the physical department, and sometimes she wonders if that connection was all their relationship really was.

But thoughts like this only made her depressed, like thinking about her mother and sisters, so she shoves it away.

“Besides,” she adds, ready to deliver a scathing speech on all the embarrassing blunders he’d made while trying to impress her sister Nesta, only for it to screech to a halt in her brain as she takes in the road signs through the window.

“Wait— _Cambridge?_ We’re in _Cambridge?”_

She struggles to sit up, even though she could’ve happily sat in Rhysand Black’s arms for hours.

“We—you—I— _agh!”_

Lucien glances back at her and she snarls, “For hell’s sake, pull over Lucien. We’re—oh, why on Earth did I even let you drive? We’re _three_ _hundred_ miles past where we’re supposed to be. Vassa’s house is way in the other direction, and all the main motorways will be closed by now. Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck—”_

She continues the stream of curses until they’ve pulled over, Lucien mumbling his apologies, then she pushes over Cassian and stumbles onto the stretch of hot pavement, her poor slipper clad feet and abused stomach protesting at the sudden, jarring movement.

They’re by a sheep field, and it’s muggy and windy but she’s biting her lips until they bleed and somehow she feels like screaming or possibly crying because it’s all just too much and she _can’t_ _do this…_

Feyre hears the others get out of the car, but she remains staring blankly at the horizon, just wanting this all to be _over._

Then a hand drops on her shoulder, warm and calloused and familiar.

Rhys.

“There’s a hotel a few miles away,” he says quietly. “We’ll get rooms and stay there tonight. In the morning we’ll head over to Vassa’s. We should be there by noon tomorrow.”

She doesn’t say anything, even as her heart squeezes.

A shuffle from behind her, a cleared throat, then Lucien mumbles, “I’m sorry, Feyre. I know…you want this to go as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

She feels them then, the four boys who she doesn’t really know anymore, who have made her life so complicated and hard, yet are still here, buying her tampons and driving her across the country.

She’s quiet, then she sighs and turns, letting Rhys’s comforting, warm hand drop, much to her detriment.

“Let’s just get a hotel,” she says, feeling drained and tired and not wanting to deal.

They’re only too happy to oblige.

* * *

He said rooms.

_Rooms._ Plural.

Not room.

But there is a _room_ and it just has one bed, and it costs an arm and a leg with a ‘late-night check in charge’ that she’s positive the concierge made up but she can’t go anywhere else because they’re on the vestiges of society and this is the only room left and she’s exhausted and crabby and feels like shit.

But it doesn’t change the fact that there’s one bed. And there’s five of them, and the room kind of smells and looking at it then Feyre kind of wants to laugh and cry at the same time, which she does, quietly, and she’s feeling a bit hysterical because there’s _no way_ this trip could get any worse, and then Lucien enters behind her and says that the misogynistic asshole of a concierge downstairs will only let a male use the phone, and it’s then that she really, truly considers jumping out of the second story window and putting an end to all this misery.

Rhys and Cassian both look like they’d be only too happy to try out a few Unforgivables on the man, and she’s tempted to join them, or at least punch him in the face, but that would require so much effort, and she really needs a shower and can’t— _won’t_ —sleep on the ground in a Cambridge sheep field.

So she sends Lucien down to talk to Vassa and tell her they won’t be there tonight but tomorrow, and nothing goes terribly in that conversation, though Lucien looks a bit red faced (she sort of wonders what Vassa said to make the usually confident and smooth male look like that) when he comes back to report that she’s fine with the change of plans and wishes them the best.

It’s all she needs to hear before dragging herself off to the shower.

And as she’s standing in the stall, the door locked and the water pounding on her shoulders…

This is when Feyre finally let’s herself cry.

Adelaide Archeron was a formidable woman, the perfect rich associate’s wife, ever the charming hostess and friend. What she wasn’t was a good mother.

But she’s all the mother Feyre has.

Or had.

It’s been four months, and her father still hasn’t left his bed. Elain’s still grieving, still mourning, and Feyre knows Nesta only cares because Elain does. She saw the ice cold disdain in her eldest sister’s eyes at the funeral.

And Feyre…

All she has left is eighteen years of distant memories, a heart with far too many holes in it, and the broken down old car of her mother’s childhood.

They never used it, in all the years Feyre was growing up as a Muggle, or her summers home from school. They’d had a chauffeur and privates cars.

No longer.

And it…hurts. A dull, persistent ache. But it’s made all the worse because she know—she _knows—_ that some of that pain, most of it, isn’t because her mother is dead. It’s because she _should_ feel sad. Should feel something for the woman who had raised her. But all she can muster is great, heaving sobs and cries for the mother she _should have had._

A daughter isn’t supposed to feel this, is she?

Her skin is raw where the water has pounded away at it, her fingers pruny and aching, but somehow she can’t make herself stop.

This trip was supposed to be the end. The final effort for the mother she barely knew.

Not this. A rambling, scrambling mess of a road trip with the older man she is hopelessly attracted to and some of her almost-friends.

But it is what it is.

And Feyre is nothing if not sturdy.

She will get through this.

This freefall will end. Eventually.

She mouths this to herself until her lips goes numb and the water is cold, until she can almost believe it.

Almost.

Then she drags herself out of the shower, drying herself off and shimmying into the cheap drugstore T-shirt and sweatpants Azriel had bought earlier and slipped under the door.

Her stomach aches again, but a quick swallow of some Advil hopefully cures this.

The clothes itch a bit, but she can’t really bring herself to care as she wrings out her hair and slips back into the hotel room, already preparing herself for the hassle of deciding who will sleep where.

She won’t think about Adelaide, about that loss, that emptiness.

Not for now. Not for a while. Not until she’s ready.

Feyre closes the door behind her, turning to see the boys…and blinks.

Once. Twice.

“What,” she says in a flat, deadly voice that promises pain and suffering if she doesn’t get what she wants, “is that you’re holding, Cassian Velázquez?”

It’s a useless question, because she can very clearly see what it is he’s holding.

It’s beer. Lots and lots of beer. And a few fancy looking bottles of what she thinks might be tequila.

The boys shift uneasily, all sprawled out on chairs, the bed and the floor, but it’s Rhysand who steps up and says, “We know you said not to, but you’ve been so stressed and upset, and we thought maybe it would help if you…relaxed a little and…” his voice trails off.

“No drinking.” Her voice is iron, yet as fragile as thin glass. “That was my _only rule._ The only thing I asked of you when you demanded to come.”

Azriel says quietly, “We know.”

And Lucien adds, “We thought, you know, that by coming on the trip, maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely and we could maybe help you cope with—” he shuts his mouth a second too late.

_“Cope with what?”_ Her voice is dangerous. “What is it exactly that I need help coping with, hmm?” No one answers. “Oh, no tell me. Why is it you decided to _help me cope?”_

They fidget uncomfortably, but Rhys somehow isn’t cowed, and he’s the one who says quietly, “You know with what.” He lifts his head and tries to meet her gaze. She avoids it steadfastly. “I know you think we’re immature idiots, and we’re only making this trip harder. And maybe we are—but whether you realize it or not, Feyre,” she hates that she loves the way he says her name, “what you needed—”

“I didn’t need anything,” she cuts him off.

He dares to meet her eyes, and the emotion in them almost sweeps her away. “You needed not to be alone,” he corrects gently.

She sees that same answer echoed in each pair of eyes she sees in the room.

For a moment she can’t say anything. They…they…

And Feyre honestly thinks she shouldn’t be surprised.

Because these are the boys, the men, who she’s known and loved and distanced herself from, the people whose relationships with her and the world have changed so much in so many ways, yet still found little ways to show her they cared.

A cup of coffee left outside her dorm room every day during finals. A smile, a quip or joke whenever she feels like she’s falling to pieces. A shoulder to cry on, a teasing comment to offer. Even Lucien, who she hasn’t been on good terms with since the break-up, and Azriel, who’s so quiet she often forgets he’s even in the room.

And it’s _so them_ that they’d sentence themselves to a full day of driving in the summer heat with a crabby, depressed girl on her period for no reason they could even understand, letting themselves be bullied and shouted at, just because they wanted to make sure she’s okay.

And it makes her feel a little like crying, but not in the way she cried for her mother, or her failed relationship with her sisters or even the way she cried when Tamlin failed her so miserably.

She’s blinking back the burning in her eyes, her hair dripping on the cheap, dirty carpet, and they’re standing there, looking unsure and wary and _there._

“Feyre?” Cassian ventures, looking a bit worried.

But she laughs, a slightly miserable, wet sound, but it’s _real,_ and then she almost smiles at them, crooking her finger at the bottles in Cassian’s arms and says, “Well, come on then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the alcohol is cheap and just as good as you can expect from a motel drugstore in the middle of rural Cambridge.

But it does the trick, and positioned as she is, laying in a pile of blankets on the floor, more than slightly tipsy and snorting with laughter at whatever ridiculous tale Cassian is regaling them with now, she can’t quite bring herself to care.

“—and then,” her friend is saying, gesturing wildly and almost knocking a lamp off the bedside table, “Mor stands up, just a little thing, barely up to his waist, and she says, “Don’t mess with my friends, you little fucker.” Then she grabs her plastic beach shovel, and rams it into his crotch.” He lets out a whoop of laughter. “Just like that. _Bam!_ And he’s on the ground writhing and moaning, and she just looks so damn _pleased_ with herself—”

Feyre is cackling so hard she’s almost convulsing, and she’s pretty sure she snorted some of her tequila, or at the very least sloshed it all over Rhys, who is lying right next to her.

Lucien is laughing. “How did she even _know_ that word? Morrigan was what—eight?”

“I think you’ll find, foxy-boy,” Rhys called from next to her, “that Mor knows just about everything about _everything_ , especially when she’s not supposed to.”

Feyre manages to control herself enough to say, “I should be filming this or something, so we can show a reel of it at Mor and Andromache’s wedding.”

Rhys flicks her gently on the nose. “Oh, you really want us to play a video of you drunk at your best friend’s wedding?”

She thinks about it for a moment, then decides that _no. Absolutely not. And if you do that I will hunt you down and kill you._

She tells him this, and he just laughs at her and says she’s drunk, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

She would contradict him, but it’s true, she is drunk. And it feels wonderful. For once she doesn’t have to worry about cars or death or freefalling. It’s just laughter and light and happy memories.

Like it should be.

It’s this thought—or maybe the soft, contemplative look she sees in Rhysand’s eyes when she glances back to look at him—that makes her lift her drink and say in a slightly unsteady voice, “Here’s to the unexpectedly adventurous road trips.”

There’s a cheer, and Cassian adds, “And lots and lots of alcohol!”

She drinks to that, too.

Azriel chimes in with his own story, this time about Cassian, Amren and the time they decided to go to Spain on holiday and accidentally incited a riot.

But she’s not listening to the no doubt hilarious story, because it will still be there in the morning and it can wait. The long, deep look Rhysand is giving her won’t.

They’re in their own little corner, tucked between the wall with the solitary window and the bed, and she feels like maybe for once he’s seeing her the way she sees him. Like she’s a miracle or a wish brought to life that you just can’t help but want to keep.

His voice is quiet and rough, drowning out the raucous sounds of the others, as he asks quietly, “Are you okay?” His eyes meet hers, and she knows he doesn’t want the fake, shrug-off answer she’d give everyone else. He wants the truth.

Her heart splinters a bit, and she wants to run, wants to bury the emotion and pretend for just a bit longer that she’s fine, that she isn’t falling, but she makes herself look at him, the eyes and tattoos and concern and whisper, “No.”

He doesn’t say anything but a second later there’s a gentle pressure on her limp hand, and before her eyes he slides his calloused fingers through her own, aligning and caressing until her small, cold hand is cradled in both of his and their eyes have stayed locked this entire time and it feels somehow more intimate than any kiss or embrace or term of endearment.

It’s grounding, solidifying. A silent promise.

_I’ll hold onto you. I won’t let you fall._

The faint moonlight turns his hair to the glimmering ripples on dark water and his eyes to starlight, and she wonders if she’s insane, or brave or just a stupid fool in love because then she’s leaning in, the others forgotten entirely.

But he doesn’t back away, doesn’t stiffen or exclaim as she draws close enough to share breath. No, he leans in, their clasped hands held together between them, a rope, a tether, a bridge binding them together, binding Feyre to the world, until his lips meet hers and she can’t see their hands anymore.

Can’t see anything or anyone but _him._

And it feels like flying, but also a bit like falling, because that’s what it is. This is _falling._

They’re lost in their own little world for what could be a few minutes or an eternity, lips and fingers and skin and hair and endless night, before a wolf-whistle breaks them apart.

But not far. Rhys keeps his grip on her hands, and somehow she’s managed to scoot partially in his lap, but she can’t make herself feel embarrassed about it, even though the others are all hooting and laughing at them, Cassian continuing to wolf-whistle and grin smugly at the same time, shouting “I knew it! I so knew it! Ah, Amren owes me fifty pounds!” and maybe that’s the alcohol talking, but she thinks that maybe it’s just _him._

But all the same her face is burning and she buries her face in Rhysand’s muscled shoulder, groaning in despair.

He chuckles, freeing her hand to wrap his arm around her. “It’s all right—they’ll get over it. Eventually.”

She debates telling him that this is just as likely as Mor declaring her never-ending love for Professor Suriel, but peeking up and seeing him smiling down at her, hair rumpled and lips kiss-swollen, looking at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world…

Those thoughts go right out of her head and all she can do is hold onto him.

Because he won’t let her fall.

* * *

Vassa has company over, a golden haired woman named Demetra, but Feyre doesn’t particularly care about her.

Her mother’s goddaughter is welcoming and kind, a girl in her mid-twenties with dark hair and an impetuous nature.

“I hope the delay wasn’t too bad,” she says, standing in the driveway of her charming, picturesque Cornish cottage, her tailored suit flapping in the brisk wind. “I feel so terrible you had to drive all this way, Feyre.”

She manages a little smile, mostly with the help of Rhysand’s hand gently, firmly holding hers. “It’s fine,” she assures her. She shares a private, little smile with Rhys. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Truthfully, her head is pounding terribly with a hangover and her cramps have gotten worse, but she’s got Rhys and the memories of the bed they’d shared the night before. Nothing happened, since the others were also in the room, and they’d barely touched, as she hadn’t entirely trusted herself not to lose all self-control the moment their hands brushed together, but the surety and peace of knowing he was there, lending her his strength and love and heart…it was what gave her the courage to get up today.

Vassa’s lips quirk up. “I’m glad to hear that.” She glances at the boys gathered behind Feyre, all looking a bit rumpled and the worse for wear after a night of drinking that went long into the early hours of the morning. She’d invited them for breakfast, but there is a delicious waffle house in London that is calling their name, so she has to decline.

Vassa’s eyes meet Feyre’s, “I’ll look after the car,” she promises, eyes unusually soft. “I know that she loved it. Like she loved you.”

Feyre’s throat is tight and her eyes are stinging, and she tells herself that it’s from the wind and fog, but she manages a tight nod. “Thank you,” she says, almost too quietly.

But Vassa shares a last smile with her, then, clutching the keys and tossing a last wink at Lucien, who hasn’t stopped being red since they arrived (oh, what she would give to know what they said in that conversation on the phone), she turns to go back into the house.

The car is parked in front of her, and Feyre lets her gaze linger on it for a moment, the familiar chipped blue paint and seats whose impact springs have long since lost their springiness. All the memories with it. The fights and laughs on its hood with Elain as a child. The memories of the past two days.

Her hand brushed against the door for a moment, and she swears she can almost feel her mother’s rare, bold smiles shining down on her.

She can hear the boys waiting behind her, silent and giving her space and time to sort herself out. Cassian, Azriel, Lucien…friends who hadn’t given up on her.

Rhysand, who had kissed her and held her and made her laugh, taught her how to shield and fight, who had never once made her feel less than she was for being a Muggleborn or a girl, who loved her in silence and out loud…

This is a fall of a different sort, the kind that takes the breath out of your lungs and makes your eyes burn and heart pound.

The freefalling that comes with _living._

Feyre closes her eyes, taking strength from the lonely howl of the wind and the chipped paint beneath her fingers. Then, when she opens her eyes and steps back, toward home and family and love, she lets it all go.


End file.
